Red, Waiting, and Wanting
by NeonDye
Summary: Stiles is a confused teenager, when one late night Peter Hale gives him something he didn't know he wanted. But when Derek figures out their habits, things become even more confusing and complicated. Can Stiles sort through his own dark emotions and find what he really needs?
1. Chapter 1

**warnings: non-con/dub-con, underage, sub-dom relationship. don't like, don't read. do like, please read and review! 3 thank you**

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

Stiles hears the words before he can see who said them, but he would recognize that spine chilling voice anywhere. It almost stills him with fear and makes him shiver, despite the warm June night air coming off the mountains of Beacon Hills. But he turns anyway, flailing as he goes, which nearly throws him off the hood of his jeep. He shoves his phone into the pocket of his hoodie, suddenly aware of how bright its screen had been in the dark woods.

"What are you doing here?" Peter repeats, a placid smile just barely playing at his lips enough to make Stiles' heart quicken slightly with fear.

"I-I just wanted—a stroll, y'know. In the good ol' Jeep. You?" Stiles stutters and trips over his words while his hands wave around like he can physically grasp at what he means.

"I was just out for a walk when I could have sworn I smelled something—_familiar_. Also, Hale property." Peter taps a foot once against the root of a tree and takes a step closer. "Remember?"

"Oh!" Stiles stands, pushing off the hood of the jeep and backing towards the driver's side door. "Sorry! I-I forgot! Ha. It's…it's all kind of just woods to me…"

Peter's smile grows into a playful, warning grin and he's beside Stiles in seconds. The boy's heart skips in surprise and he jumps, bumping a hip against the metal of his own vehicle.

"J-Jesus!" Stiles hisses. "You Hales sure know how to nearly kill a guy." His right hand fumbles behind him for the jeep's door handle and a nervous, frightened smile is splitting across his face.

Peter's hand flashes forward and his body closes in. His coordinated hand splays over Stiles' own clumsy one and his breath can be felt on the boy's flushed cheek. Peter smiles with teeth now as he bares his claws and lets them just barely graze over Stiles' knuckles.

"What's the rush, Mr. Stilinski?" Peters eyes scan over the boy's red draw-string hoodie, eliciting the tangy stench of fear and the sweetness of the boy's self-propriety to stand apart from Stiles' usual musk. "Little Red afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?"

Stiles' laugh comes out sudden and bitter, before he realizes what he's doing and bites it off too soon.

"I really should go." Stiles says so low he almost couldn't even hear himself. "It's late and you're, um. Tired?"

Peter's smile dims and he presses forward, until Stiles can feel the rise and fall of the man's firm chest, the warm, damp air of his breathing against his cheek, can see the pin point black of his pupil. Stiles can't help but notice that the man smells almost like Derek.

"Won't you join me?" The beta whispers lowly, somehow more of a threat than an invitation.

Stiles holds his breath and simply nods, not aware at all of what he could possibly be agreeing to, even as the man takes half a step back, before finally replying, "Y-yeah. Okay, sure."

Without warning, Peter crowds in again. He takes fistfuls of Stile's shirt, the sound of it pulling apart rips through the still night air and the boy barely has enough time to gasp before Peter is smashing their lips together. The kiss is anything but chaste, but somehow manages grace and steadiness, even with the lude smacking of Peter's lips and clacking of teeth. Stiles has no idea what to do except throw his arms out in front of him, try to shove Peter away. But clawed hands grab at his wrists and pull his hands apart until one arm is around Peter's hips and the other is splayed over the growing warmth in the man's groin.

Stiles is scared. He's never felt fear like this. His heartbeat is drumming in his ears and the exposed skin of his chest is tingling where Peter drags his claws. But he's never been touched like this before, has no idea if this is how it's supposed to feel. He's confused and—and aroused? The tenting of his jeans and raw scrape of the zipper against him is proof enough.

But he doesn't even _like_ Peter, hates him even. For what he did to Lydia, to Derek, to himself. His body is at war with his mind, sharp pangs of _no _tear through his skin and make him shudder with every scrape of Peter's fangs at his bare throat but the catch in his breath hisses _yes_ and pulls his blood down where this death threat of a man has his hand to.

Stiles moans at the sound of the slow drag of his zipper and flick of the button.

"You're like a piece of clay, Stiles. I can mold you into what I want, do with you what I please." Peter says into the jugular of the boy's neck, a fanged smile playing at his lips before he takes a nip at the pale, warm flesh.

"Tell me, Stiles. Do you like this? Do you like being a little toy for me?"

The intake of Stiles' breath is so quick and loud as Peter yanks his head back by the boy's growing hair when he doesn't respond.

"Y-Yes," Stiles says shakily, eyes trained on the Beta in front of him in fear and ecstasy.

"Good," Peter says and kisses at the crescents he left on the boy's skin just moments ago. "My little plaything. You taste so sweet. So young."

Stiles gives a closed off moan at Peter's words, only half-hearing them as the beta traces the line of his fast hardening cock through his tented Batman boxers. He doesn't at all hear the light tinkling of Peter's belt buckle or rasp of his pants as they drag below his knees, he is only aware of the man's movements when he's forced to his knees and eye-level with a pair of black boxer-briefs. The swollen, pink head of Peter's cock, dripping with pre-come is peeking over the elastic waistband. The beta gives a lick of his lips and says with a steady voice, one clawed hand under Stiles' chin, "I want you to take me into your mouth, Stiles. Take it until you can't anymore and then take it in some more. Or I will do it for you. Understood?"

Stiles' eyes are wide and his hands are shaking, but he sees no other option and yanks the rest of the cotton fabric down Peter's thighs in one painless swoop and presses the flat of his tongue curiously at the tip. The pre-come is salty and bitter but Stiles tries his best to not grimace.

"Go on." Peter coos Stiles on from above.

Stiles uses one hand to grip the base of Peter's throbbing cock and the other is at the man's hip, used to brace his pale, trembling frame and prepare himself.

The weight is heavy against Stiles' tongue but he drags himself down the length, eyes shut so as not to see his own shame play out in front of him. He stops when he feels the tip make him choke and he opens his hopeful, innocent eyes to look into Peter's, but they're cold and sharp.

"Come now, my little toy, surely you can do better than _that_." Peter tsks before gripping the nape of Stiles' neck into his fist and pressing him forward, forcing the boy down on his hard length until he can feel his full, pink lips against the base and his tip slam at the back of Stiles' throat.

Stiles gags and tears spring to his eyes, his hands tighten at Peter's hips, silently begging for mercy, but the only response he gets is a slow drag back before he's slammed down again around Peter's cock.

Peter chuckles a sigh and lets his head lull back, snapping his hips and pulling at Stiles at a rhythm he finds on his own.

"There, there," Peter sighs, almost annoyed when he hears a muffled, stifled out sob come from Stiles. "This can't be too bad. Look here, you might actually be into this sort of thing." He drags a foot forward to knead his ankle against Stiles' own erection. Stiles sobs again, from pleasure or pain, he himself can't decipher, but he's aware of the jolt of electricity he gets when Peter finally comes into contact with his own neglected arousal.

Peter takes on a new rhythm, faster this time and more thrusting on his part. Stiles sits back on his heels, tears streaming down his cheeks as Peter abuses his used, swollen lips accompanied by the occasional sob or cry of pain.

Finally, Peter stills and Stiles is relieved, until he feels a warm spurt at the back of his throat. He chokes and digs blunt nails into Peter's thighs, but to no avail as the man's hips twitch forward slightly with every release into Stile's mouth.

Peter pulls himself from Stiles, making quick work of his jeans and smiling again as if he had never touched the boy.

But Stiles can taste the salty tang of Peter on his tongue, wipes at some with the back of his hand that had escaped past his lips and dribbled to his chin, tears are still fresh on his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot, his arousal is still warm and throbbing in his own half-undone jeans. More than the taste of Peter at the back of his throat, he can feel his bile at the shame he feels. For his actions, for his lack of refusal, for his own sick pleasure in their confusing tryst.

"Clean yourself up, Stiles. You look a mess," Peter says, like an upset mother to her child and turns on his heels before making his way into the forest.

Stiles stays on the leaf-covered ground, until his knees aren't even sore because he can't feel them, and the tears and cum on his face become tacky and disgusting.

He has no choice but to make his way into his jeep, slamming the door and driving down the road, fighting back a panic attack and tears the whole way home where he yanks at his own still-hard cock and sees stars when he comes to the memory of being used so mercilessly, so brutally. But in his mind's eye, when he looks up it's not Peter's cold grin he sees, but the warm, loving, flushed face of Derek Hale.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: ajhgkaf im sorry these chapters are always so short! ;A; but derek is in this chapter! woah! enjoy :3**

* * *

When Peter entered the loft Derek didn't look at him at all until the beta made his way into the kitchen and the overpowering stench of sex hit him like a led weight.

"You stink," Derek growled, scrunching his nose like smell was foul. And it was, it was too sweet and reeked of something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Jealous?" Peter's lips quirked up but it didn't reach his eyes. He yanked open the fridge and snatched a water bottle from the top shelf, taking a long and seemingly savoring gulp before looking at his nephew again.

"No," Derek said gruffly, pushing away from the counter if only to achieve more distance between himself and his uncle's offending aroma. "Just take a shower; I don't want you stinking up the place." He tried to rush away from Peter as nonchalantly as possible, grabbing his keys and loping down the stairs.

Peter grinned against the lip of the plastic bottle and took a smaller sip. "Will do," he chirped after Derek in a tone that promised otherwise. Derek only rolled eyes because _of course_ Peter would get the last word.

* * *

Stiles' heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Derek in the aisles of the grocery store, and if the alpha was aware of his presence he didn't acknowledge it and simply continued reading the back of a shampoo bottle.

_Did he know? Would Peter tell Derek? Would Peter tell _anyone_?_

It had been almost a full twenty four hours since the confusing tryst in the forest and Stiles had taken a long, hot shower and scrubbed at himself for what seemed like hours and still his paranoia coursed through him like a sharp electrical current.

Despite his better judgment, Stiles was determined to act like nothing had happened at all and pushed his cart over to Derek.

"Hey there, Big Bad and Leather Clad! You like _Axe_?" Stiles nodded at the shower gel in Derek's hand. "I myself prefer Irish Spring, but yeah I guess you would be into that sort of soap. You look it. But I guess you're stunning good looks aren't enough and you just _have_ to smell nice too, huh? Like sex in a can?"

Derek sighed like Stiles was already testing his last nerve and set the bottle back on the shelf.

"You don't smell like it," Derek said deadpan, like it was absolutely normal to go around sniffing teenage boys.

"What?" Stiles nearly jumped back, suddenly reminded of Derek's natural abilities. _What else could he smell?_

"Irish Spring. You don't smell like it." Derek's eyes left the shelves for a moment to skate once over the boy next to him. "Not today anyway." His eyebrows furrowed like he was confused and edging towards curiosity, but thought better of it and his face fell back into its natural scowl.

"Oh." Stiles cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his tee shirt, suddenly too hot as a blush crept up his neck. Derek tried his best to look like he didn't notice. "Yeah! I'm, um, trying out this new soap my dad bought me? It's kind of strong, I guess. Different. Can you really smell me from there?" He sniffed at his shirt sleeve himself before shoving it at Derek's face.

Derek quirked a brow and pushed Stile's hand away as gently as he could, motioning between himself and the boy. "It's not like you're in my space or anything, Stiles. Really."

"Oh? Um, oh!" Stiles looked at Derek's hand, finally realizing that he was, in fact, standing just a hair too close to Derek. He jumped back, hands animated and flailing in front of him. "Sorry! Oh my god! I didn't-I-I wasn't, um—"

"It's fine." Derek snapped, not with hostility, but not exactly welcoming either. His hand grabbed at a bottle of shower gel and he tossed it lightly into his own basket. "Bye, Stiles."

"Um, yeah! Bye! I mean, see ya' around? I guess?" Stiles said and waved even when the alpha's back was turned and quickly retreating further into the store. He waved until Derek turned the corner and he slumped against the shelf, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his plaid over shirt.

_Who said that was good idea? _Stiles huffed and pushed himself to his feet again to continue his shopping.

* * *

_What the hell was that?_

Derek sat alone behind the wheel his Toyota, groceries in the seat to his right and his two hands clutching tight at the steering wheel while he stared blankly at near-empty parking lot.

There was no denying at this point that when he looked at Stiles something in his chest stirred and his stomach became unsettled. But that? In the store? He had no idea what to make of it. Before this, he would have been willing to bet money that if Stiles didn't hate him, then he was definitely scared of him. But it had been Stiles who had walked over to Derek, Stiles who had initiated the conversation, and Stiles who stood just inches away from him in the shower appliances aisle of the local super market.

What was he supposed to do with that?

* * *

Stiles refused to think about Derek. He absolutely denied himself that.

What had he been thinking? What was so normal about approaching the Beacon Hills alpha like that? He'd never done it before, not without someone else present anyway.

But, while he was _absolutely not thinking about Derek Hale,_ he had to admit that he was looking particularly good that evening. As if it were possible for Derek to look bad. He's seen the guy force a smile and try his best to flirt (bless his emotionally constipated soul) and even that wasn't so bad, even if it was almost painful to look at him without a frown on his face.

Finally, Stile's had enough of _not thinking about Derek _and _absolutely not thinking about Peter_ and decided to park somewhere and simply not think at all.

So, for the second time that week, Stiles found himself sitting on his jeep at night.

This time, though, he had enough sense to not stop in the woods and instead settled for the abandoned parking lot of a local strip mall. At ten pm in a town like Beacon Hills, all the stores were already closed.

Which of course meant that he was not allowed a moment of peace. He jumped nearly a foot in the air with a frightened yelp when none other than Peter Hale was suddenly standing on the other side of the jeep.

"Jesus Christ, would it kill you Hales to give a guy a heads up!" Stiles gasped, clutching at his chest dramatically.

"Energetic as ever, I see," Peter said, not even looking at Stiles as he ran a hand over the head lights of the jeep, a predatory grin completely audible in his voice.

"Um," Stiles said intelligently.

Peter finally looked at the boy, eyes trailing generously over him before settling on his lips. He smiled, but his gaze was one of hunger.

"You saw Derek today," Peter said, after minutes of silence between them. Stiles' heart thudded against his chest, fear and shame and maybe even arousal sending his pulse rate into a violent uptick.

"Yeah," Stiles rasped, voice shaking as he licked at his lips nervously and tried not to look away from Peter. Did he really want this—a repeat of something he thought he wanted to forget?

"Did you two talk about anything interesting? I know my nephew isn't so personable, you'll have to excuse him on my behalf." Peter slinked closer and Stiles slid off the hood, ready to get in the car and leave at a moment's notice. But Peter caught the second Stiles took to dart his eyes over the door handle and stepped closer. "Are you really so scared of me?" He whispered low into the skin of Stile's throat.

Stiles froze, fists clenched at his sides to keep from grabbing at Peter's shirt with shaking hands and pull him closer. Because, he'll be damned, he liked it—all of it, for some fucked up and intangible reason.

Peter chuckled, his hot breath skating over Stile's skin and sending a shiver through his spine that he just couldn't hold back.

"Tell me, Stiles, what is it that you want?" Peter's hand stroked down Stiles' sternum, stopping short just above his navel with claws that barely grazed over the cotton of his tee shirt.

"I…" Stiles swallowed thickly, "I don't know." His eyes fell to the black asphalt beneath his sneakers but he made no move to back away.

Peter pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully. "Too bad, but I know what I want," His smile grew wider and for a second time that week Stiles found himself on his aching knees and tasting Peter Hale on his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**author's note: !TRIGGER WARNING FOR RAPE! i am not trying to glamorize or romanticize rape**

* * *

Every night, for a week and a half, Peter finds his way to Stiles. Whether it is nine p.m. or 3 a.m., in a dark alley way or Stiles' own bedroom, Peter Hale eventually has Stiles on his knees in front of him. And it's nothing for Stiles to complain about, even when all he has afterwards is himself to take care of the ache in his own jeans.

By the fourth night going into the second week, Peter has crawled through Stiles' window just to see him but seems to get bored. Even after he's pushed Stiles to his knees and his hands are in the boy's hair—pulling his head up and down his shaft, savoring his gasps for air and the feel of the back of his throat jump when he gags on the head of his cock—Peter doesn't come.

"Is it… am I doing something wrong?" Stiles asked, swiping at the pre-come and spit around his lips with the back of his hand.

Peter runs a hand through Stiles' hair absentmindedly, thinking, before he gripped tight at Stiles' short brown locks and pulled him up to his feet. Stiles let out a weak little gasp, but his eyes fluttered shut and his own cock throbbed with newfound arousal.

"I just want something different, is all," Peter says, lapping at the underside of Stiles' jaw between his fangs. "We need to play a new game."

Despite his immediate fear, Stiles moaned when he felt the drag of Peter's elongated canines against his clavicle and leaned into the sensation. Peter grinned and nipped at the boy's throat, which sent Stiles' hands grappling at the back of the beta's shirt.

Peter's hand—the one _not_ pulling at Stiles' hair—found its way to Stiles' jeans and yanked them open with a pop of the button that had Stiles grinding at Peter's hip with want.

"_God_," Stiles gasped and let his head fall back, exposing his throat which Peter sucked at hungrily.

Peter finally lets go of Stiles, but only to shove him on the bed and crawl his way over his writhing body.

"You look so delectable like this, Stiles, so vulnerable and exposed," Peter growled into Stiles' ear as he dragged a clawed hand across his bare chest, his t-shirt pushed up until it was bunched underneath his arms. "Tell me, Stiles" —Peter licked at one of the Stiles' nipples, and pulled away from it with a lude pop that made him shiver—"what do you do" —he grazed his teeth over Stiles' sternum and pressed the flat of his tongue against its base before he dragged it back up—"after I've fucked your throat soar every night?"

It took Stiles quite some time to process the words, because between the bruises Peter was sucking onto Stiles' skin and the teeth he felt nipping at his ribs, his brain had short circuited.

"_Tell me, Stiles_," Peter growled lowly and pulled once at Stiles' hair in warning.

Stiles mewled and his hips bucked once against Peter's still free erection.

"I… I masturbate…"

Peter huffed a laugh and bit down playfully on Stiles' shoulder in way that made him whimper and buck again.

"Come on, Stiles, I know you can do better than that. Tell me, what _exactly_ do you do?"

Stiles breathed in shakily before finally giving a reply.

"I drive home… come into my room, l-lay down…on my bed… and I think about what we did that night. I imagine again what it feels like to have you push me to my knees and… and I remember your dick in my mouth, it's thick a-and hard and I gag on it—on you. And I like it. I like the thought of you pulling my hair so I have to do what you want. I like it when you make me choke it down and make me cry and swallow your come. I don't know why, its just—_god, _it makes me hard. And thinking about it again, alone, in my room. I have to put lube on my hand and jack off, rough too, like how you are with me.

"I pull my dick out of my jeans and fuck into my hand just thinking about how you treat me and it—"

Peter sinks his teeth down into Stiles' shoulder again, with malicious intent this time, and it makes Stiles cry out and his hands surged forward in a feeble attempt to push Peter off of him. Tears sprung to Stiles' eyes and threatened to overflow. Stiles' thrashing only made Peter's jaws clench tighter, and Stiles hissed as his flesh ripped with every small movement.

"P-Peter! Peter, stop!" Stiles had to shout in a whisper, half-begging. "That hurts! Stop it!"

Peter finally let go of Stiles' shoulder, blood smeared across his mouth, dribbled down his chin, and stained his teeth. He licked and wiped away at it all with a lazy hand and a predatory smile.

"You're not thinking about me when you fuck yourself, are you?" Peter growled.

Stiles blanched.

"I—that's not—I never—"

"Who is it, Stiles?" Peter grinned maniacally. "Whose name do you cry out when you finally come?"

Stiles threw his fist once against Peter's chest, "Shut up! I'm not—I won't tell you!"

Peter's grin only grew as Stiles' weak human fists thumped vainly at his chest.

"I'll just find out for myself, then."

Stiles stopped for a moment, but his eyes widened with realization and his protests started again immediately.

"No, Peter. Stop it, get off of me! I'm not—I don't like this anym—"

Peter simply smiled, took Stiles' wrists in one hand, and held them above his head as he licked and sucked a path down his torso.

"P-Peter, please—I—I'll do anything, just don't—"

Peter rocked a slow rhythm against Stiles' groin and grinned wildly when Stiles buried his face in his own arm to stifle a moan.

"I—I don't want—Peter, please stop—"

Peter used his free hand to pull open Stiles' jeans, yanked them down his thighs along with his boxers, and took hold of Stiles' hard cock. Stiles yelped at the touch and his hips pushed upwards into it, despite his own pleading.

"P-Peter! Peter, please, don't. Don't, don't, don't do this—I'll do whatever you want—"

"Will you tell me?" Peter whispered, eyes flashing gold and fangs lengthening.

Stiles was taking shaky, shallow breaths as if he had been running for miles. Tears swam in his eyes but he refused to break the contact with Peter. "I can't," Stiles said, firm but defeated and buried his face in his arm.

"Then you aren't _really_ willing to do anything to stop me, Stiles," Peter said with a rueful smile before dragging his hand slowly down Stiles' shaft.

Stiles bit his lower lip and tried to imagine he was somewhere else, _with_ someone else. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to match Derek to every drag of Peter's hand along his dick. His imagination easily supplied an alpha with dark hair and grey eyes and a flushed face that stared up at him through long lashes as his muscular arm pumped at his cock, squeezing and twisting when needed until Stiles couldn't take it. Until he felt the coil beneath his naval tighten painfully and he was writhing and dragging his feet with clenched toes across his bed sheets in an attempt to find stability. Until, finally, finally, he spilled onto the hand clenched around him that tugged at his cock through the streams of come that just kept on.

"D-Derek!" Stiles moaned, eyes still wrenched shut and hands above his head; it left his mouth with nothing to bite into to stifle his whimpers and shouts.

Peter had let go though, once is nephew's name fell out from Stiles' lips like a prayer and he stared at the boy with wide eyes and a quickly growing smile.

"Oh… oh, I _see_," Peter whispered, looking from Stiles to his come-coated palm.

Stiles didn't look Peter in the eyes—_couldn't_. And instead stared at his pleased face through his lashes, and gave shallow and quivering breathes as he tried to regain his composure and come down from his climax—or at least not fall asleep after so much exertion.

Peter promptly jacked himself off, used Stiles' come to slick his hand and spilled across his stomach before quickly redressing and leaving Stiles alone again.

Stiles stared at the ceiling for a long while after Peter left—unsure of how he felt. In Peter's leaving, Stiles felt a strange hollowness in his chest and a lump grew in his throat, but he refused to shed tears. Why did he feel like crying anyway?

Instead of assessing his answer, Stiles decided to finally succumb to sleep.

* * *

Derek had Peter slammed into a wall as soon as he stepped through the door of the loft.

"Always so dramatic," Peter grunted. Derek only tightened his grip around his uncle's throat.

"_What _the hell_ do you think you're doing, Peter_," Derek growled as his eyes gained a red tint.

"Trying really hard to breathe," Peter choked out, still finding room to use sarcasm in his situation. Derek responded with another hard shove, but loosened his fingers.

"I can smell him on you, Peter. Just—_why—_"

"I'm only having some fun, Derek." Peter smiled like he knew something he shouldn't. "Besides, I don't hear him telling me 'no'. In fact, I distinctly remember a '_yes, yes, yes, god _please_, y_—"

Derek shoved at Peter again, this time hard enough to hear the sharp crack of his ribs rip through the air like a shot and he stalked away.

Peter fell to his knees, one hand gripped to his side, but a smile still apparent.

"Green with envy isn't a very attractive color on you, Derek," Peter chuckled after his nephew.

Derek's ears were tipped red with rage as he took off on foot and held back a howl. The same question played on loop in his mind like a broken record:

_Why Stiles?_

* * *

The next afternoon Scott came over, but froze in Stiles' door frame before he turned to his friend in horror.

"Stiles, what _the hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Stiles didn't look away from his television screen. "Uh, playing Call of Duty?"

"_Stiles_."

"Don't say my name at me! I answered your question!"

Scott stomped into the room and stood in front of the screen with crossed arms and a glare Stiles could hardly take seriously.

"Scott!" He whined, dropping his controller. "What's your deal? Move!"

"My 'deal', Stiles, is that you stink. Like Peter." Scott bit his tongue to keep from saying what else he could smell on Stiles.

Stiles hadn't batted an eye but Scott heard his pulse quicken.

"Great, you can smell me," Stiles said deadpan. "Now, could you please move, I think you just got me killed via sitting duck to a bunch of snipers. Thanks."

"I'm not moving until you explain to me why the hell you would ever have sex with Peter fucking Hale!" Scott shouted.

Stiles surged forward and slapped his hands over Scott's mouth.

"Shut the hell up, Scott, oh my god, my dad is down stairs!" Stiles hissed.

Scott pulled Stiles' hands from his face without any hesitation.

"I'll stop yelling when you explain why you would ever consider getting boned by the local undead sociopath; much less actually go through with it!"

"Sssh! Shush! Shut up! Ssssh!" Stiles hissed again and threw his hands back over his best friend's mouth.

Scott gave him incredulous eyebrows. Stiles answered with angry ones. Scott gave him worried, then questioning eyebrows. Stiles' eyes dropped to the carpet for a moment before looking back into Scott's and gave a single firm shake of his head.

Scott pulled Stiles' hands away and his brow furrowed with concern, anger, and sadness all at once.

"_Seriously_, Stiles?"

Again, Stiles' eyes fell to the carpet and he buried his hands in his pockets before he gave a pitiful shrug,

Scott stared dumbfounded for a long moment before he scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. He glared through his best friend with disgust and rage.

"Wow, Stiles. Just—wow."

And with that Scott left through Stiles' bedroom window.


	4. Chapter 4

**authors note: **_heyyy chapter five has been increasingly had to write! so it might not be up for awhile, even if chapter six is already down eheh ^_^" but im glad to see so many ppl think my writing is good! woah!  
**!RAPE AND NON-CON WARNING! I AM IN NO WAY EXCUSING OR CONDONING RAPE!**_

* * *

"Long sleeves?" Peter asked as he pushed Stiles against his own bedroom door and pulled at the collar of the shirt to bite at his collar bone. "What's wrong, don't like the little gifts I give you?" Peter grabbed at Stiles' hands and kissed at the bruises around his pale wrists from the night before.

Stiles still couldn't look Peter in the eyes so he settled for fluttering them closed at every opportunity. "C-can't… Can't have people… asking questions…" Stiles sighed between every drag of Peter's teeth across his skin.

"Good boy," Peter praised, smiling into Stiles' neck before sucking another bruise at the sensitive flesh there.

Stiles was wiping at the come on his chin with his discarded shirt when he was suddenly shoved forward onto his bed.

"W-what the _fuck_, Peter?" Stiles demanded, pushing himself up on his hands and glaring over his shoulder. Peter stalked forward, pressing himself against Stiles and biting at is pallid shoulder blades.

"This is a new game, Stiles."

Stiles bit his lip. "I-I don't know, Peter. I don't… I'm not sure I like these 'new games' so much…"

Peter huffed a laugh against the back of Stiles' neck and laved at it greedily.

"You can pretend it's my darling little nephew all you want, Stiles. As long as I finish, you could cry out the name of a Star Trek character for all I care."

"Um… okay?" Stiles wasn't sure how to take Peter's statement, but instead arched into the sensation as Peter dragged his tongue down his back.

Peter's hand found its way down Stiles' jeans and into his boxers, and used the boy's pre-come as lube to jack his cock while he rocked his own hard-on against Stile's ass.

Stiles' arms shook as he tried to hold himself up and he spread his legs wider when Peter's free hand cupped his ass and squeezed, eliciting a choked-out moan. Stiles couldn't tell if he was fucking into Peter's hand or grinding his ass against Peter's dick, and eventually stopped trying to differentiate the two sensations.

Peter nipped at Stiles' exposed back, but yanked his hand from the front of the boy's jeans so quickly that Stiles whimpered and cantered at the loss.

Peter shushed him and licked a quick line between his shoulder blades. "Not yet, Stiles."

Suddenly, Stiles' pants were around his ankles and Peter shoved him so he was sprawled forward across his bed and again kept his arms locked above his head.

"P-Peter!" Stiles gasped. "Wh—no, I don't—"

The beta simply smiled and grazed a single clawed finger across Stiles' back.

"Shush, now, Stiles, this won't take long."

"What? Peter, stop—I—I don't want to—"

Stiles cried out before taking the blanket between his teeth and screaming into the cotton as tears streaked down his face.

A single, sharp claw dug into the soft flesh of Stile's shoulders and slowly dragged down, making Stiles' eyes screw shut and his legs tremble.

Peter repeated the action for what felt like hours and Stiles had screamed his throat ragged, his cries had long tapered out into hoarse whimpers and his sweat and tears made his blanket damp. The beta swiped a hand across his work slowly and tenderly, smiling at the hiss of breath Stiles took inward and the smear of blood he'd left in its wake.

Stiles' eyes widened when he felt a blood-slick finger pressed against his entrance and he looked to Peter, silently pleading _no no no_ before he was breached and he let out a pitiful wheeze.

Peter finger fucked him slowly, pushing his index in and out with laborious movements that, no matter how long they lasted, were too intrusive and obstructive for Stiles.

Still, Peter pressed on, he eventually worked in a second finger and grinded his erection against Stiles' hip.

"God, Stiles, you feel so tight and warm. I can't wait to get my dick in there and fuck you properly."

Stiles closed his eyes and tried to picture Derek behind him, even when Peter bent over him and pressed into the wounds so hard it caused him to see stars, he kept his eyes wrenched closed and Derek's name on the tip of his tongue.

Peter hooked his fingers in a way the made Stiles jump and wheeze when he tried to whimper. And again, his body betrayed his mind as his dick swelled painfully against the mattress.

"You liked that?" Peter chuckled and slowly curled his fingers again. Stiles whined and tried to get friction on his cock by fucking into the mattress, as he willed silently for Peter not to speak so he could pretend it was Derek who whispered filthily in his ear as he got finger fucked.

Peter laughed and set into a faster pace, until his hips were knocking erratically into Stiles' and he came for a second time that night with a litany of curses across Stiles' ass and lower back.

Stiles rocked back onto Peter's fingers, and rotated his hips in hopes of getting that sweet spot again and came with a hoarse and ragged would-be shout of _Derek _into his sheets.

Peter pulled his fingers from Stiles' aching hole too quickly and it made him gasp and shutter.

"God, you're so wonderful." Peter sighed, kissing a flurry against Stile's shoulders and pressing a palm across Stiles' bloody back. Stile hissed between his teeth but couldn't find any strength in him to fight Peter.

So, the beta dressed quickly while he took occasional, hungry gazes at Stiles' exhausted form as it lay in a heap on his bed, with labored breathes and tear stained cheeks that couldn't bear to turn his way.

* * *

Stiles woke up to a splitting head ache, sore throat, and the inability to move without hissing in pain.

But despite the agony, he dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, where he washed down the drain all his blood, come, and tears.

* * *

Derek was furious, he couldn't stand to see the smug grin on his uncle's face when he came into the loft the previous night, he could smell the sex on him. He could smell Stiles and his satisfaction and—blood?

He sniffed again.

Yes, that was it.

Derek didn't realize he was growling until Peter stopped in his tracks, without a smile.

"What _the fuck_ did you do to him?" Derek growled and shifted without a conscious decision.

"Nothing he didn't want."

Derek howled at the sound of dishonesty in Peter's pulse rate and threw himself at his uncle, his fangs clamped down around the first hint of exposed flesh and his claws latched into his skin with animalistic ferocity.

"_Liar_," he ground out. "_What did you do to him?_"

Peter's eyes were wide but his mouth split into another wretched grin.

"Why don't you ask him?"

Derek slashed at Peter's face and stomach before he hauled himself back to his feet and ran out of the loft.

* * *

The air was stale and heavy, with too much moisture to breathe comfortably, but Derek ran through it. He had no set path or actual plan of where he was going, and so he eventually found himself in the woods.

"Derek!"

He whipped around the sound of his name in time to see Scott skid to a halt behind him.

"Derek," Scott huffed, obviously winded. "We need to talk."

Derek bristled. "About what?"

"Stiles."

Scott stepped back as Derek clenched his clawed fists, and blood dripped from between his fingers when he inevitably sliced open his palms.

"So you know?" Scott asked, hopeful.

"No," Derek growled. "I don't know a goddamn thing."

Scott guffawed. "Are you really going to be like that, Derek? If you know what's going on between them, _please _explain it to me!"

"Ask Stiles, he's your friend."

"And Peter's your uncle!" Scott bellowed. "And Stiles won't tell me anything! I just—I'm so confused!"

Derek narrowed his eyes at Scott, curious but wary.

"Please, Derek," Scott continued. "If you know anything, tell me. And talk to Stiles. He's being a dick but he's still my best friend and I'm worried."

Derek crossed his arms and ignored the blood he was smearing on his biceps.

"Why would he tell me anything?" Derek asked quietly.

"I don't know. I don't know!" Scott ran a hand through his hair. "But you have to help him if I can't, Derek. Please? He smells like shame and fear and—and _blood_, hell, his whole room smells like it."

Derek stepped back, aghast and angry all over again. A growl was forming deep in his chest that he wasn't sure he had the strength to hold back the more Scott spoke.

"Okay." Derek said as calmly as he could muster. "Okay. I'll try to help him."

Scott's face fell into an expression of gratitude, all tearful eyes and quivering lip. "Oh, thank god. Thank you so much, Derek."

Derek shook his head and sprinted past Scott, now certain of where he was going.


End file.
